


Yalta

by caulkhead



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Gen, Otter lunacy, Things not to do with a yacht
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-16
Updated: 2011-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-24 16:48:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caulkhead/pseuds/caulkhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Carolyn's favourite client organises a party, MJN Air are chartered to deliver the entertainment. But when Arthur is unable to resist the call of the wild, who would have thought those cute furry faces could cause so much trouble?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yalta

**Author's Note:**

> For A J Hall. I might be wrong, but I think the crew will know why.

"Ah, Mr Aliakin. My _favourite_ client. And how may MJN Air delight you today?"

"Delight me? I think not. But help me, this I think maybe you can do. I have sold a new yacht, a very very large yacht. It is fifth yacht I sell to this client. And to celebrate, I am having a very very large party. In Yalta."

"I see! And you would like us to take your guests to the party. But of course! And where would you like us to fly your youthful yacht lovers?"

"No."

"No?"

"No. I do not fly people with your airline. Forgive me, but after the last time..."

"If you are referring to the incident with your executive assistant, the M&Ms and the paper plane, I can explain."

"No. I do not wish to have an explanation." For a moment, the voice on the end of the phone sounded less self assured, perhaps even a trifle weary. "They rarely help, especially when they concern your crew. No. I have a lot of things which have to be flown out for the party, a lot of cargo. And I have a special request." The arrogance was back in full measure now. "Some airlines will not like these requests, but you are so desperate for my business, you will say yes."

"I will?"

"You will."

If he thought that the details he proceeded to outline were in any way outrageous, reflected Carolyn, Aliakin obviously had far less experience with charter airlines and their clients than she did. Not that she had any intention of letting him know that. Deal concluded - and confirmed in writing - she decided to indulge her curiosity.

"So tell me, how did you manage to persuade this particular yacht-fancier that there were not currently enough yachts in his life? Was the paint scheme on the last one the wrong shade of white? Didn't he like the carpets? Or did he just forget where he parked it?"

"I do not think this is any of your business, babushka."

"Mr Aliakin. At MJN Air, as you know, all our clients are important to us, and that does include understanding their little foibles, so that we can serve them better in future. How better to get inside the mind of a billionaire, than to ask his yachtbroker?"

"I did not think it was my clients' minds you were interested in. But as you ask... He knows very well where he moored it - or parked it, as you so amusingly say. But he has a kink in his chain."

"A kink in his chain. Fancy."

"A kink, yes. His anchor is stuck in the bottom, and he cannot get it up. So instead, he buys a new yacht. It is less trouble, and besides, the yacht is old. He has it six months already, and it does not have a submarine."

 

...

Carolyn surveyed her crew with some asperity. Used as she was to more or less idiosyncratic reactions whenever she told the crew where they were going next ("briefed them for their next mission," Martin insisted. He would.) these ones struck her as more than usually odd. When she informed that them that GERTI was to carry, amongst other things, two otters from the wildlife sanctuary near Fitton to Yalta, Martin had turned puce and muttered 'But the CAA!", Douglas had collapsed in uncharacteristically silent laughter, and Arthur had beamed and announced

"Brilliant! I'll start emptying the fridge."

Douglas gave a deep sigh.

"Arthur. You will not start emptying the fridge because the otter in the fridge was purely hypothetical."

"But these ones can't be hippo- hypo - hyper - what you said. Mum would never let us have hypercritical otters on board, would you, Mum?"

"Doesn't need them, with Douglas around," muttered Martin.

"And yet, here I am. Arthur, there are two otters. Count them, two, you should be able to manage that. One for each hand. Believe me, the fridge will not be necessary."

"I'm not having otters anywhere my flight deck. Why can't they go in the hold like the Persian cat?"

"The Persian cat that nearly froze to death because _someone_ forgot that it was in there and didn't set the heating?"

Martin bristled. " _Two_ someones, as I recall."

"Correction," interrupted Caroline, putting an end to a debate that was clearly gearing up to continue halfway to Asia and back again, if not checked. "It is not _your_ flight deck. It is, in fact, _my_ flight deck, and if I decide that you are going to carry anything up to and including a herd of wildebeest in there, Martin, you will do just that. As it happens, the otters will be securely fastened in travelling baskets, and will be no trouble to you whatsoever.

"Besides, the otters can't go in the hold, because it will be completely full of assorted tat masquerading as British craftsmanship, half a ton of Burberry picnic rugs in execrable taste, and twelve dozen Fortnum's hampers as take home presents for the guests. And Douglas, may I point out that the loading at both ends will be taken care of by airport staff, so there will be no opportunity whatsoever to get your greedy little paws on anything at all. Except for the otters, which I assume not even you could manage to swap for anything, although dear God, I expect you'd give it a try."

Douglas assumed an air of wounded dignity that was all too familiar, and entirely unconvincing. Carolyn paid it exactly as much attention as it deserved, which was none at all.

"But why otters?" asked Martin.

"Our employer is having what he considers to be an English country party. He wants them to frolic. Specifically, he wants them to frolic in the specially built stream running though his revoltingly overdecorated megamansion - sorry, I mean his modest rustic dacha - to amuse his guests. I gather there were meant to be trout as well, but unfortunately they met the otters rather too early, so trout are off the menu."

"Except for the otters," Douglas said.

"Quite. Personally, I hope the little buggers bite him, but I don't suppose there's much we can do about that. Is there anything you don't understand?"

"There's just one thing," said Arthur, waving a hand keenly in the air.

"Only one? Truly, wonders will never cease."

"Shut up, Douglas. What is it, Arthur?"

"Mum, why are we taking the wildebeest?"

...

 

"Captain Corelli's Mandarin"

"Ha, yes. Erm... War and Peas."

"Bring me the breadfruit of Alfredo Garcia."

A knock at the cabin door.

"Arthur, moon of my delight! Do you bring us the true, the blushful Nescafe, with winking bubbles beaded at the brim?"

"Sorry?"

"He means, is the coffee ready yet, Arthur?"

"Yes. Well. Not quite. Um, Douglas?"

"Yes?"

"You know how you said how St Peter just looked at those little whiskery faces, on the otters, and it just got him, right here? Well, otters are very cute, aren't they."

"Yes, Arthur. They are. I fail to see, however, what that has got to do with my coffee."

"No, I mean they're really _really_ cute, aren't they. And that was why St Peter decided to let them into heaven. Because they were so cute, and looked at him with those little whiskery faces."

"Yes, Arthur, that is what Douglas said." Martin was rapidly losing patience. "However, cute as the otters are, unless you have trained them to add hot water to what MJN Air is pleased to call 'coffee' granules, they're not really relevant to the flight deck at the ... Hang on. Arthur, are you trying to tell us that the otters looked at you meaningfully and _you let them out of their baskets_?

"No."

"Good, because I thought that you meant..."

"No, Skip, I'm not trying to tell you that. I am telling you. I just opened the baskets for a minute to let them stretch their legs, because they were sort of squashed, and their little faces looked so sad and..."

"And cute, yes, we have established that, thank you Arthur. And what are our furry little friends doing now?"

"Well, I was only going to let them out for a second or two, but they just sort of whisked out of the baskets and under the seats, and I can't see them any more. They're really fast, aren't they! Hang on, I'll look."

"No, Arthur, wait. " Martin's voice aimed for an authoritarian bark, but only achieved a strangled squeak.

"Oh, OK then. Only, I was just sort of wondering, is there any way you could get them back in their baskets before Mum notices, Douglas? Because I don't think she'll be very pleased with me."

"Carolyn doesn't know yet?"

"She was down at the other end of the cabin, Skip. So I came straight in here to see if Douglas could think of something clever."

"Perhaps a quick prayer to St Mary?" suggested Douglas.

From the back of the plane, a shriek rent the air. Martin winced.

"Too late."

...

"But I thought otters were supposed to like fish?"

"It's entirely possible that microwaveable tuna pasta bake does not constitute anything any self-respecting otter would call 'fish'. It's certainly not anything _I_ would call fish - although I grant you it's certainly fish- _y_."

The crew had reconvened in the flight deck after a rather fraught quarter of an hour. Arthur was nursing a scratch, which Martin had insisted on liberally drenching in disinfectant, although Carolyn had seemed to think tetanus would only serve him right. His jacket was torn after an unsuccessful attempt to set up a drop trap, and the otters were still nowhere to be seen.

Carolyn leant back on the door and favoured them with the thousand yard stare she usually kept for passengers ordering drinks five minutes before landing. Strong men had quailed before that stare. They did so now. "Gentlemen. No, sorry, pilots. And Arthur. We have one and a half hours before we arrive in Yalta, and while we may technically be delivering the otters as ordered, I rather think Mr Aliakin will expect them to be in a somewhat more identifiable location than 'somewhere in GERTI'. Douglas, I'm relying on you."

"Oh, Carolyn. No. It's not fair." As usual in this situation, Douglas' mellifluous tones were perilously close to a whine. As usual, she ignored them.

"Douglas."

"What? What are you two talking about? Is Douglas mysteriously the Pied Otter Piper of Yalta or something?" Martin was bewildered, again as usual.

"Almost. You remember Douglas selflessly volunteered to do the walk-round check for you in case your ankle was still playing up?"

"Yeees..."

"Well, didn't you think that was a bit odd? A bit... generous?"

"I just assumed he was setting something up for a future favour. Sometimes, you might just as well give in - I know he's going to win anyway, so what's the point? At least I got a walkround out of it."

"Well, I would be prepared to bet your next month's salary that Douglas found a problem with the hold doors that had to be investigated, and that he had to carry out a thorough inspection that involved climbing into the hold, just to be on the safe side. Didn't you, Douglas?"

"Look, Carolyn, I..."

"And I would bet another month's worth of _Douglas'_ salary that four dozen Fortnum's hampers are somehow missing - ooh, a side of smoked salmon each. And the cheese."

" _And_ the cheese? Douglas, you..."

"Thank you Martin, this is not the time. I don't know where you've hidden the salmon, Douglas, but hand it over."

"Brilliant! We're bound to catch them now!"

...

"Otters are brilliant! See, they really are fast, aren't they!"

They certainly were. So far, they had managed to get though four of the six sides of salmon Douglas had grudgingly produced, placed carefully inside the otters' travelling baskets, without the crew once managing to slam the gate of the basket while the otter was inside. Martin had, inevitably, slammed the gate on his own thumb, and had retreated to the flight deck in a huff to tell Douglas that the captain's place was at the controls, and wildlife control duties were a matter for the first officer. Even Douglas was looking ruffled by now, although Arthur still seemed to be regarding the whole thing as a cross between Hunt The Thimble and _The Really Wild Show_.

"It's not working," Carolyn admitted. "We need some way to slow them down. Put them to sleep."

"We could try the in-flight safety demonstration. It always seems to work on the passengers."

"Very funny, Douglas."

"Did someone say sleep?" Martin's voice, from the flight deck. "Douglas, could you come in here a minute?"

"Got some expertise in the matter to share, have you, _Captain_? Found some useful advice in the operating manual on otter management techniques?" Nevertheless, Douglas went. Carolyn suspected he would have taken any excuse to get out of a cabin where, five minutes before, he had been crawling round on his beautifully-ironed knees, muttering "Here, otter, here boy" and waving a piece of salmon in the air. Her own experience of dog-catching had also proved utterly lacking, she had to admit. Cockerpoos, no matter how badly trained, evidently had nothing on otters.

"As it happens, I have." Martin appeared in the flight deck doorway in turn, a slim white packet in his hand.

"These are Dramamine. I bought them back from France, that time we went to Paris a couple of weeks ago."

"Dramamine?" asked Carolyn incredulously. "But that's for seasickness. Do you really think that's the problem here?"

Martin was instantly on the defensive.

"It's not that I get seasick. It's just that I happen to have an optimally functioning vestibular system."

"Except for the bit where you get water in your ears and pass out," snapped Douglas.

"Well, yes. But that could happen to anybody. Anyway, the thing is, these make you incredibly drowsy. I took one when I had to do a delivery to the Isle of Wight last week, and I slept for the rest of the day - the people on the ferry got really upset by the time I was going back across for the fifth time. I told them I wasn't safe to drive but they wouldn't..."

"Martin. The point. I assume there is a point?"

"I thought we could crush a couple of the tablets up and roll the salmon in them, and then when the otters have eaten them, they'll fall asleep, and we can dig them out of wherever they're hiding and put them back in their baskets."

Stunned silence. Martin tried not to look smug, and failed.

"Really, you don't need to thank me. I was just..."

"I wasn't going to. Arthur! Take that packet and get crushing!"

...

"And there you are, Mr Aliakin. One hold's worth of the finest British craftsmanship, forty cases of single malt..."

..."Carolyn, you didn't mention any single malt!"

"No, I didn't, did I?... and two otters. Sign here, please."

An ominous pause, as Aliakin glanced at the two cages that Arthur was holding up in the air. A deep intake of breath.

"Babushka, what is this? My otters are dead."

"Nonsense. They are asleep. And before you get all Monty Python on me, you can see perfectly well that they are breathing. This one's snoring."

"Why are my otters asleep?"

"They got airsick, poor little things," said Douglas, seeing Martin about to open his mouth. "Had to give them something to calm them down - you should have seen their little faces. Quite heartbreaking. And your guests wouldn't have appreciated airsick otters, I assure you."

"Perhaps they are not dead," Aliakin admitted. "But how will I entertain my guests now?"

"You wanted British wildlife gambolling? Let it not be said that MJN Air left a client in the lurch. Crew. You may gambol at will!"

"And how precisely did you want us to - gambol - Carolyn?"

"Well, I don't know. The man wants to be entertained. Entertain him! Don't you know any party tricks?"

"We could saw Arthur in half."

"Ooh, could you really, Douglas? That'd be brilliant!"

"No, Arthur, it would not. At least not for you." Douglas turned to the yachtbroker, oozing charm and sincerity. "Mr Aliakin. May I make a suggestion? You may not know this, but otters are in fact very fast animals. I believe they can run at up to thirty miles an hour. In their natural state, they would provide very little entertainment for your guests, being mostly invisible. And messy. _Very_ messy."

Carolyn restrained a shudder. The carpet cleaning bill was going to eat up a considerable portion of their profit from this trip, even after Arthur had done his best with a bottle of Dettol and the galley scrubbing brush.

"As it is, you have a pair of exceedingly docile - and exceedingly cute - otters whose whiskery little faces are guaranteed to brighten any occasion, without any risk of your guests suffering nipped fingers, stolen salmon or, shall we say, more -unfortunate - incidents. So difficult, getting otter spraint out of Pucci chiffon. In fact, you might almost say we have done you a service."

More silence. Then, blissfully, the sound of a gold-plated Mont Blanc fountain pen being uncapped, and the whisper of ink across paper.

"Babushka. Your receipt."

...

"So, we're stuck here for the next two days, waiting for the otters to recover from their coma, and for everyone at the party to do likewise, so we can fly the otters home again and get the second part of the payment. I for one am too old and _much_ too stiff to sleep on the floor in GERTI, even if I didn't mind sharing it with you lot, which I do. The good news is that I have managed to find the last room left in a rather ghastly Soviet era spa hotel, but at least it has a bed. The bad news for the rest of you is that every other room in the place has been taken up by this convention of cosmetic dentists, so I must leave you to your own devices. See you Tuesday. Sweet dreams!"

A depressed silence fell for some moments after Carolyn had swept out. But when Douglas looked up from the console, there was a worryingly familiar light in his eye:

"I don't suppose Carolyn happened to mention where that oligarch of hers moored his spare yacht?"

Martin looked at him in some alarm, then hastily looked away again. Some things were easier in the air, where you always had a reason to be looking at the instruments or out into the distance.

"Douglas, _please_ tell me you're not thinking what I think you're thinking?"

"Oh, I rather think I am."

...

"This is Captain Martin Crieff, requesting permission to depart. Over."

"Permission granted. Yalta port authority out."

"And it's the open seas for us!" Douglas sat back in his chair, so much larger, more imposing, and - frankly - more padded than his usual seat on Gerti. "You know, with this boat, and this crew, we could go anywhere. Anywhere in the world"

"I'd really not go anywhere at all, if it's all the same to you," said Martin nervously. Presenting themselves as the new navigators ("Yes, of course we're qualified pilots," Douglas had said breezily, skipping over exactly what kind of pilots they were. "Got certificates and everything. This is the captain here, just look at that hat,") had raised no eyebrows at all, with the deckhands apparently used to regular staff changeovers, but he was still deeply uneasy.

"Nonsense. We're out of port now, you can open her up."

"Douglas, no, I don't think you should touch that lever, I..." Too late.

"Geronimo!"

...


End file.
